The Silent Sound Of Loneliness
by r4ven3
Summary: My original NYE fic, set as 2010 became 2011. Harry & Ruth can't seem to speak to one another in complete and comprehensible sentences. One shot.


_**A/N: The title is from a lyric in the Christina Perri song, `The Lonely', so I acknowledge those words are hers.**_

_**Characters belong to Kudos, although I believe that I treat them better than Kudos ever did.**_

* * *

He'd made his excuses and left the Grid a little before ten o'clock.

"At least stay for the drinks, Harry," Tariq had pleaded, as if his presence for just another two hours could only be bought with the promise of alcohol.

Now he's in his house, heating on, tie, jacket and shoes off, whisky in one hand and his phone in the other, he's not sure that he'd made the right decision to see in 2011 on his own, rather than with his staff. Who wants to celebrate New Years Eve with the same people they work with every day? It's just that Ruth had gone home early, standing in the open doorway to his office as she'd bid him goodnight, her stance an awkward mix of wanting to stay and wanting to be gone.

"I might see you tomorrow," she'd said, her eyes meeting his, a gentle smile turning her lips upwards.

"I don't expect you here tomorrow, Ruth," he'd said, wishing he'd had the courage to ask her for a drink. Her place? His place? Anywhere but here.

"If you take the day off, Harry, then so will I."

He'd watched her, not knowing how to answer her. How to say, `I have nothing in my life other than work', sounded quite pathetic.

"If there's nothing else you need me for, Harry …... I'll be going now."

_Need you for? There is so much I need you for, Ruth_. "Are you off out?"

"No. It's madness anywhere on New Years Eve. I'm just …... I'll watch a DVD, and open a bottle of something. Then when it's gone midnight, I'll turn in. That's what I normally do."

He'd wanted to ask her for details. Was she celebrating alone? Would she like company? Would she like _his_ company? All he'd said was a curt goodnight, followed by `and don't turn up tomorrow'. When she left, smiling one last time, waiting just a few seconds longer – as if willing him to say something more – his office doorway again became empty, a yawning chasm reflecting his own empty life.

So here he sits, on the sofa in his living room, soft music playing in the background – Classic FM, of course – wondering how it had come to this. His plan in asking her to marry him had been to ensure both of them never had to spend another Christmas, New Year or birthday alone; that neither of them again would have to attend another wedding or dinner or reception without a partner; that neither of them would ever again need to sleep alone. Since Ruth had returned from Cyprus twenty months earlier Harry had noticed how much of his day, his week, his life he spends alone. Apart from work, his existence is a solitary one. He travels, holidays, eats and sleeps alone, and he's sick of it.

He begins to formulate a plan …... a plan, perhaps not the wisest and most fool-proof plan he has ever devised, but a plan all the same. He needs to do something different, something which will bring an end to this gut-churning, heart-deadening loneliness. His personal life exhausts him with its emptiness and predictability.

"_What are you doing for Christmas, Dad?"_

"_Oh, nothing much, Catherine. I'll be home should you want to drop in."_

"_Sorry, but Graham and I will be at Mum's. We might call in later ….. if you'd like that."_

"_I'd like that very much."_

But they hadn't, and probably never will. He's not the best company, and his cooking, while adequate, is hardly inspirational.

Harry downs his whisky – still his first for the night – and gently places the empty glass on the small table beside his armchair. He looks around him, and realises that he has turned into his father – a solitary, self-pitying, emotionally crippled workaholic, filling his lonely hours with alcohol and BBC 3 radio.

"_If you remember nothing else I have ever told you, son, please remember this," _his father had said to him, not long after he and Jane had separated._ "Shostakovich and Prokofiev might have created some wonderful music, and whisky will temporarily ease your fears, but they can never keep you warm at night. Don't push away the people who love you. Don't get to the end of your life, with the only people at your funeral being those who are only attending to ensure you're really dead and safely in the ground."_

At the time Harry had believed it was already too late for him, that there was no-one left in the world who loved him. His mother was dead, and his beloved younger brother had just died, and he had angered Jane, and was a disappointment to his father. He had filled his non-working hours with a string of unsuitable bed partners, none of whom had stayed around long enough to keep him warm at night, let alone to love him.

Even Ruth had said no, and he'd believed – foolishly, it seemed – that he at least was able to rely upon her love. He leans back in his chair, and closes his eyes. The only illumination in the room is from the standard lamp behind his chair, and the glow from the gas fire. With his eyes closed, he conjures Ruth's image. He remembers her discomfort after he'd suggested that she marry him. It had taken a lot of courage for him to ask her. He had thought about it for weeks, and then after Ros' funeral, he'd just blurted out the words – twisted and clumsy, and not quite right. She had said no, and she had confirmed it by saying that they were fine as they were. His father's words now haunt him. The old man had looked into him, knowing more about him than he'd known about himself.

"_Don't get to the end of your life, with the only people at your funeral being those who are only attending to ensure you're really dead and safely in the ground."_

Perhaps Ruth had taken to heart his words which had paraphrased his father's warning to him over two decades earlier. He had pointed out that only six people had been at Ros' funeral, and that he didn't want that for either of them. Small wonder Ruth had said no. His proposal had been high on practicality and convenience, and very low on romance.

Harry grabs his phone from beside him, and presses Ruth's number. He listens while it connects, and then …... he gets an engaged signal. He tries again ….. and again. He tries four times, and each time her phone is engaged. Frustrated, he drops the phone back on to the small table, and pours himself another drink. He is about to bring the glass to his lips when his phone rings. He picks it up to see the two most glorious words in the English language – _Ruth calling._

"Ruth?"

"I think we've been calling one another at the same time," she begins, her voice breathless. "I was trying to ring you, Harry."

"I was …. ringing you. I wanted to …."

"What?"

"I really want to see you, Ruth."

"But you saw me only a few hours ago."

"That was on the Grid. It's not ….."

"You're right. It's not ….."

They each wait for the other to continue. Eventually it is Harry who can't bear the silence.

"Ruth …... can you come here ….. to my place? I really want to …."

"What, Harry? What is it you want? I need you to tell me."

Harry is about to say, `I don't want to be alone tonight', but he knows those words will not bring her to his side. Words describing his need and want are not attractive to her. He digs deep within himself to find what it is he wants – what he wants of that evening.

"Ruth …... if I had the choice of anyone in the world with whom to spend this evening, I'd still choose you. I will always choose you. I would like to see the new year in with you. Can you get here? If you like, I can come and get -"

"Harry ….."

"Yes?"

"Look out your window."

Keeping his phone against his ear, Harry gets up from his chair and walks to the front window. He pulls aside the curtains, and outside, under the streetlight, he sees an unfamiliar car, and by its interior light, he sees Ruth sitting inside, her face turned towards him.

"It's you," he says unnecessarily. "Whose car?"

"It's Beth's. It's her brother's, but she borrows it. She went out with Dimitri and Tariq and some others, and she suggested I use the car. Her exact words were, `You can use it to drive yourself to Harry's'."

"She said that?"

"Yes. I think Dimitri said something to her. Or maybe Tariq. We do spend a lot of time in one another's company, Harry. They'd all be terrible spies were they to not have noticed there was ….."

"... something between us."

"Yes. Something other than an unnavigable bridge of miscommunication."

"Come inside, Ruth. It's cold out there -"

"Bloody freezing, actually."

* * *

"I have wine," Ruth says, once she hands her coat and scarf to Harry for him to hang them in the front hall, on a hook next to his own coat. Ruth dives into the large bag she'd brought with her, and lifts out four bottles of wine – two white, and two red – and then two containers of takeaway Chinese food. "I'll bet you haven't eaten," she adds. "This meal is provided by Beth. She ordered too much for her own party, so she gave me some. I suspect this was her plan all along."

Harry takes the bottles from her hands, and she follows him into his kitchen with the Chinese takeaway. Ten minutes later they are in the living room, each with a glass of red wine, and a plate of Chinese food.

"I just love noodles," Harry says, as he tucks into his meal.

"Hungry?"

"Famished."

They eat without speaking, and when Harry returns from the kitchen with the wine bottle to top up their glasses, Ruth is the one to break the silence. Harry is sitting in his favourite armchair, while Ruth sits at one end of the sofa with her legs curled underneath her, having removed her boots soon after she'd arrived. Harry had teased her about her striped green and red socks, and she had defended her choice of hosiery, stating that her flat is not as warm as his house.

"I hope you don't mind me just turning up tonight," she says quietly, once they are quietly sipping their wine. "I thought that it less likely you'd send me home if I got here without letting you know I was coming."

"What if I'd had …... company?"

"I decided to risk that, Harry, and had you been …. entertaining someone, at least I'd have known for sure."

"Known what?"

"That there was no longer any chance for …. for us."

Again they sit in silence, while Harry watches her, and she drops her eyes under his direct gaze.

"I'm very glad you did, Ruth. I was ….. hoping for something to change ….. between us."

"You could have said something at work …... when I was leaving."

"I know. I didn't quite have …..."

"The courage?"

"Something like that, yes."

"What's the worst thing that could have happened?"

"You might have said no, Ruth ... or worse, you might have made some vague excuse about having other plans."

"And equally, I might have said yes."

Harry smiles across at her, and then empties his glass. "I'm glad you're here."

"As am I."

Nothing is said for a few minutes. It has just gone eleven o'clock, and they each know that seeing out the old year is just an excuse for them to be spending time alone together, but this thought remains unspoken.

Harry places his empty glass on the small table beside his chair, and gazes across at Ruth, who is watching him closely.

"Would you like to sit next to me, Harry?"

Who knew Ruth could be so bold? Harry hesitates, uncertain about what it is she is really asking. "I'd like to," he says, slowly getting out of his chair. Despite his excitement over Ruth being in his house, preparing to stay awhile, he is feeling slow and sluggish, as he often does these days. It is as though after a very long day at work, once he is at home, he must eke out the little energy he has left. Perhaps this is a sign of him aging. Perhaps he has been working too hard, his days at work too long for a man in his late fifties. Perhaps he just needs a full night's rest. It has only been recently that he has seriously contemplated retirement. If he could retire with Ruth, he'd hand in his notice tomorrow.

Ruth pats the sofa next to her, and rather carefully he sits beside her, but not touching. Meanwhile, Ruth has found the TV remote control, and has turned on the TV, and then muted the sound. "So that we know when midnight arrives," she explains, smiling across at him.

He knows they need to talk, chiefly about what he'd meant when he asked her to marry him, but he suspects that this night is not the right time. They are both tired, it has been a long and stressful year, and to relax in the company of the other is all they can expect for now. Perhaps in a few days or weeks they can have a quiet meal out somewhere, and they can talk about a possible future together, and what form that might take. Harry feels sure that Ruth will be open to that.

So he leans back against the cushions, and closes his eyes – just for a moment.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he lifts his head, and turns it from side to side, his neck being stiff and a little sore. He notes the TV and radio, lamp and gas fire are all still on. He grabs the remote controls from the coffee table, and turns off the TV, and then silences the Mozart opera on Classic FM. Beside him on the sofa he hears Ruth's steady breathing. He turns his head to see her curled up against the cushions, her face turned towards the back of the sofa. Very carefully, he gets to his feet, and looks around for something with which to cover her to keep her warm. He could wake her, and suggest she either sleep in his spare room, or head home, but he doesn't want her to be doing either. A quick check of his phone tells him that it is 1.47 am. They have both been sleeping for almost three hours.

Harry quietly heads upstairs. In his en suite bathroom he uses the toilet, and then strips and stands under the shower, the water just a little too hot to be comfortable. Under the shower he cleans his teeth and shampoos his hair. He should also shave, but he doesn't imagine he'll get close enough to Ruth for her to complain about his facial stubble scratching her skin. He dries himself and dresses in fresh trunks and undershirt, thick socks, and a pair of grey track pants and a warm jumper. He heads to the spare room and removes the duvet from the double bed, carrying it downstairs to the living room. There he very gently lays it over Ruth, tucking it between her body and the back of the sofa. She mumbles something unintelligible.

The next step in his plan is by far the most risky. He could sleep in his armchair. He could head back upstairs and sleep in his own bed. Either option would have him sleeping alone, and he no longer wishes to be alone. Ruth has turned herself so that her whole body faces the back of the sofa. Very gently, Harry lifts the duvet and slides underneath it. He faces Ruth's back, and just to ensure he won't fall off the sofa, he reaches out with one arm, and curves it around her waist, being careful to not disturb her as her pulls himself closer to her. When he is settled, her buttocks resting against his stomach, his knees lifted so that they provide a resting place for her bottom, he moves his face towards her, and very carefully lifts her hair, and kisses the warm skin behind her ear.

"Harry …." Ruth utters his name clearly. Either she knows it is he, or she is dreaming about him. Either way, Harry is happy.

Is it alright if …. I sleep here …. with you?"

"Mmmmm," she hums, "nice."

Harry is very tired, but he is stimulated by Ruth's proximity, and he prays his body won't betray him, especially when they wake in the morning.

"Happy 2011, Ruth," he says, placing another soft kiss behind her ear.

"Yeah …. you too."

"We need to talk ….in the morning."

"Mmmm..."

Harry lays still until he hears Ruth's breathing deepen into a soft, rhythmic snore. "I love you," he says quietly. He is sure he hears her say, `Me too', but perhaps she is just mumbling in her sleep.

Harry allows his eyes to close as he opens his hand on her stomach over her clothing, drawing her even closer against him. He may never again be free to lie pressed against her in this way, so he'll not allow this opportunity for intimacy to pass him by. The lateness of the hour has made him brave, and perhaps being away from the Grid has made him a little foolish, while it being the early hours of another new year may have rendered him overly optimistic. Either way, he has no wish to be anywhere else.

While she is lying so close to him he is no longer lonely. Harry feels the hope for the new year embracing them both like a mother's arms. If nothing else ever happens between them, at least he will have had this night.


End file.
